cranky

Ok, I am totally cranky and I’m basically going to rant about all the crap the bugs me today. I know I just posted yesterday, but I want to get this up before I get in a good mood again.

Here’s my cranky list.

1. My husband’s dog craps a lot. Sometimes in the house and then falls into it. My dog barks non-stop, unless she is scraping my shin raw with her tiny razor-like claws begging for food.

2. The guy who sells pens outside the grocery store. I know I will burn in Hell for not being eternally patient with you, but I am not Marilyn Monroe and I don’t’ want a pen and no, I don’t want to go to Hollywood with you and I will not give you a farkin’ hug. Every day with this. Sheesh.

3. Does anyone out there blog about ANYTHING but freakin’ Jesus and The Lord?

 Enough. He gets it. He likes you. You are totally in to him.  Blah blah freakin’ blah. I suppose everyone has a hobby. There is a blog out there called “My Kids’ Allergies”. Super entertaining.

4. People smoke on the street and think that this is perfectly acceptable behaviour.

 I swear to God the next person who blows smoke in my face is going to get a world of fart back at them. I mean, how rude are these people. Yes. You. Even you.

5. Everything has God-damned calories. Bloody hell.

6. Breakfast is over too soon. I want a longer breakfast.

7. I have no freakin’ idea where Brad gets the ideas for his songs. Why are you asking me? Ask him. I anticipate the answer with be “from my brain”.

8. My stupid floors do not wash themselves. Disgusting, thoughtless floors.

9. I do not want to go to your painfully boring Blues Jam. It’s in Vancouver, which is 4400 km away from where I am. I do not like The Blues. Even when I am drunk. Stop inviting me or I will fill your Facebook page with pictures of adorable kittens in baskets and teacups. And not the ones with the funny slogans, either.

10. My fat day pant are tight.

11. I can not seem to wear anything without getting a coffee stain on it. Or an apple juice stain. Who knew apples could stain? WTF.

12. SUV limos. I don’t care if it IS your grad or your wedding or your staggette. You look like a douche.

 ______________________________________________________

Later… 

I had a nap and feel better.

Bye.

Camping is not a good thing

Two truths. Camping is for bad people. Summer camp is not fun.

 People who like camping are nuts and I don’t get it. Why spend thousands of dollars on camping gear and tents and hibachis and bug spray just to sleep on the ground and feel sick. It is not fun. I don’t need to drive to a crowded parking lot next to a spindly forest to sit in a lawn chair.  I can sit in a lawn chair at home.

People who do not like camping:

People who like camping and think it's fun:

My brother loves camping. He's not totally evil. But kinda.

He lives for camping and the outdoors, generally. He is the only camper in our family. The rest of us just look at him with pleasant, bemused expressions, like he’s some sort of natural oddity, like an interesting mushroom, or a chicken with two heads. I guess the difference between he and I is that he had good early experiences with camping and I did not, and thus our opinions on the matter varied.

My first experience with camping, other than a sleepover in Pam Stewart’s parents’ trailer tent parked in their driveway, would have been Bible Camp in Arnes, Manitoba.  

Me, the year of Bible camp.

My family were active in the church, but were never particularly Jesus-y, so sending their daughter to a Bible camp was not their first choice. But it was the only option within driving distance, so off I went. My parents told me that if they asked me if I’d been saved, I was to just say “Yes” otherwise they’d make me stand up and say a bunch of confusing stuff and give me a new birthday.

I didn’t make friends with the other girls in my cabin – I think because I was fat and awkward. Those were the reasons. In that order. Stupid Jesus-y girls. They will burn in Hell. Me too. But for different reasons. I will totally snub them in Hell.

Anyway, I always had to be paired up with the counselor. Her name was Esther. I clung to her like a deer tick the whole week. Wherever you are, Esther, thank you!

We did crafts and archery and canoeing and (mortifying) races and a lot of skits and hymns and church services in the morning.  I was not having a lot of fun, I don’t think. But, I was stoic. I assumed it was one of those things that kids had to endure, like playing baseball or listening to your parents’ choice of music on long car trips (I still get a little car sick whenever I hear Mantovani)

My next foray in camping would have been in grade 6 when our teacher, Miss Goodman took our class camping at Hecla Island. Miss Goodman was a fresh teachers’ college grad and we tormented her. I ate too many Bugles and felt sick for hours. It was unseasonably cold. The ground was, like tundra, harder than regular ground. Campground toilets full of fish flies and broken bottles. Mosquitoes and black flies. Bland games that were suggestions from books written in the 1950’s. I think I must have had at least some fun because there were boys there that I had crushes on, though they weren’t interested in me. And there were also marshmallows. Two of my favourite things in one tedious weekend. But still. It was camping. Eww.

I think Miss Goodman was badly shaken by her experiences on that trip and left teaching soon thereafter. I’m sorry Miss Goodman. You were a nice person. You need nerves of steel to work with 11-year-old boys. What were you thinking?

My last stab at camp was two separate weeks one summer at the International Peace Gardens Camp. One week I went to Band Camp (tenor saxophone) and the other I went to speech and debate camp on a “scholarship” from the Selkirk IODE Ladies club. This camp was a bit better because we slept in actual dorms and our schedule was highly structured, so there was little time for me to display my social ineptitude.

There were actual real talented kids at this camp. I was shocked to be assigned  ‘third chair, last seat” in the tenor saxophones. I could barely read music, but faked my way through the week somehow. We had a couple private lessons included in the week. I can’t recall being particularly impressive.

One thing I did do better at this time was meeting people. I had vowed to be better than the Jesus-y girls at Camp Arnes and did my best to make friends with EVERYONE. There was one lonely looking girl and I stuck out my hand and introduced myself. Her face lit up and she said “My name’s Becky Fitch”. I choked when I heard the name, but turned it into a cough. I really hope she was fooled. She latched on to me the whole week, and I remember thinking, unkindly, that I wished I could “upgrade” to a more interesting friend. Again, I will burn in hell and Becky Fitch will snub me. I am no better than the Jesus-y girls. Good thing her nick-name wasn’t Bucky. 

me and Becky Fitch

There was one really pretty girl there, (there’s always one that stands out and she knows she is the beacon and allows the rest to pay homage while she holds court like a Fairy Queen). I didn’t talk to her until the last day when we happened to be in the same spot waiting for our parents to pick us up. When we said our polite goodbyes, she gave a big smile and she had the hugest gums and smallest teeth I’d ever seen. Freakishly out of proportion. My heart leapt.

I’m so happy that I’ll never have to go to camp ever again. Even though I am somewhat more skilled socially than I was as a pre-teen, I think sleeping in the same room with 30 strangers is something to which I can say, “Done that”.  Unless I join a crazy religious sex-based cult. Or go to prison. Or hell.

And the winner is...

Ok so, because it’s me, it has to be a little more complicated than it normally would.

When I announced the contest, I should have delineated the format that the haiku should take. Classic Japanese haiku have a format of 3 lines, with 5 syllables in the first, 7 in the second and five in the last. There are, I understand, modern interpretations of haiku which allow for a more free-form structure. Because I did not specify that the haiku was to be in a particular format, I have chosen 2 winners, one in the regular format, the other in an alternative format.

All the entries were super freakin’ awesome and you all are winners in my heart, by which I mean my bum.

Winner of the classic format Insult Ted Nugent haiku is:

Ted Nugent agrees –

A sure sign your idea


Is far too simple

By Craig Woods.

His entry, simple and straightforward. Also brings to mind that there is no use arguing with someone like Ted Nugent because he would not listen to the other side of the argument, but would offer a retort such as I would hear in the hallways of my high school: “Yah, but you’re an asshole”.

Congratulations Craig.

_______________________________________________________________________

Winner of the Free Form Insult Ted Nugent Haiku is:

Cat scratch fever, feel no pain


Not so deer you shot

With bad aim

By Elizabeth B.

I like it because it is sweet and uses the word “aim” with a double meaning. Plus it rhymes

 Well done, Elizabeth.

Thank you to all who entered. I enjoy having smart people around me. You are the smartipantsest.

There will be future contests, where people can win stuff. Like random objects from around my home, or bits of string. Or my dog.

School's Out

Another school year draws to a close. It was always a sad time for me.

While most kids couldn’t wait for summer vacation, I saw two months (gasp) of unstructured time stretching before me like a prison sentence, a series of arduous tests laid out for me by an Evil Wizard or the Selkirk school board or something. The horror.

I would get my school supplies for the next year as soon as possible. Then I would spend hours arranging the packages of loose leaf and binders, pencils, crayons, what have you. And rearranging them. Neat piles, alphabetically, according to subject. Not at all weird.

To distract me from pining for school, my mom would sign me up for those local Day-Camp programs for kids. They were ok, but I usually felt pretty awkward around new kids and tried to suck up to the teenagers running the thing. I usually lasted two or three days and then decided I’d rather eat a thick paste of Nestles Quik and milk in our freezing basement rec room than have to make crafts with strangers (don’t pretend you’ve never had that Nestle Quik Nirvana). Summer day camp programs involved my 3 least favourite things in the world: activity, the outdoors, and other kids.

I did learn how to paper mache at one of these camp things. I wanted to do it at home. Mom said, there was no way she was dealing with that kind of horrific mess and why didn’t I just go back to the camp where there were indifferent teenagers paid to do the washing up.  Sensible, but would have involved social interaction. Ew.

After I inevitably quit the day camp, I would sit around the house all day bored out of my mind.

“Use your inner-resources”, my mother would tell me when I complained of having nothing to do.

It was her way of saying “Get the hell out of here”.

I didn’t want to use my “inner resources”. I wanted assignments! And after that I wanted gold stars. No one put gold stars on your paper mache kitty mask.

So I’d wait out the summer with trips to the cottage, poorly attended birthday parties, hanging out at Selkirk pool with wet chip bags stuck to my leg, at least one major sunburn and The Bobbsey Twins. It was torture.

By the time September rolled around I was ready to explode with excitement. I wasn’t allowed to talk about how great it was to be about going back to school as it “gives your father an ulcer”. As a middle school teacher, I guess he had different feelings on the matter.

 So I vibrated with gleeful anticipation as subtly as I could, quietly plotting how to make my new teacher like me the best. It usually involved a mental image of myself sitting up very straight at my desk with my hands clasped on top. The very picture of a 10 year old vessel waiting to be filled with learning. I wanted to be the reason they went into teaching. I wanted to be the kid that they mentioned in their retirement speech 30 years hence.

No issues there at all.

Not much has changed. The arrival of summer always seems a little melancholy to me. Although I like the warm days and sunshine and slip on shoes, I still have a little resentment toward the assumption that I should want to be outdoors, doing… things. I prefer September to July, if only for the clothes ( I look better in layers of wool than slip dresses) and  I prefer Back-to-School flyers to beach books.  But until autumn, then,  I shall bide my time barbequing, getting sunburned, and eating fresh tomatoes on toast. 

It’s going to be just awful.

Ted Nugent

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about Ted Nugent.

I know, I know. Picking on Ted Nugent is about as fair as hunting big game in an enclosed hunting space. Not much of a challenge, but I never did like working very hard. And he is just a walking buffet of stupidity so it’s not really a reach for me, or anyone.  I realize that I am not the first person to be gobsmacked by how idiotic this man is – blogs and websites devoted to this exist – but I just… well, I just can’t NOT say anything, you know? It’s like not telling someone that their fly is open. Or that their ideas represent everything that is wrong with the world. That kind of thing.

Ted Nugent and hunting – he’s totally in to it and doesn’t care why he’s shooting something. He just wants to kill it. ("I don't hunt for sport, I don't hunt for recreation, I don't hunt for meat, I hunt to hunt ..." - Detroit Free Press , p. 12D, April 17, 1989). We could totally use him in Afghanistan.

Except he doesn’t want to go to war, like a good Republican should. His only sensible intuition. He avoided military service by not washing for a month, crapping and pissing in his own pants for a week and consuming nothing but Vienna sausages and cola. The word hero comes to mind. 

And by hero, I mean douche bag.

 I get the idea that we should be aware of where our food comes from and that hunting for food is an ancient and natural part of human existence.  We all have to respect that our food comes from nature, and something has had to sacrifice in order to feed our gullets. Ted Nugent encourages everyone to hunt for their own food. Apparently, even if it's illegal. It’s hard, however, to hunt if you live in downtown Los Angeles and not on 340 acres of fenced Michigan prime hunting ground. And, I mean, what if you’re allergic to wild boar?

I don’t buy free-run chicken every single time, it’s true. I don’t want to be a hypocrite. But I also don’t buy chicken that’s certified 100% killed by cross bow either.

So us lefties have to pay people to do our hunting for us. And our evicerating. And packaging. If I did have to hunt for my own food, you can bet your arse I wouldn’t squeal like a psychopath on his birthday when I bagged my dinner. 

FRESH KILL

He does not love Canada. He called Canada an “idiotic country” when Ontario disallowed black bear hunting for a season in 1999. Ten years later, in a radio interview he expounded his opinions on Canadian gun control laws with, “Hey Prime Minister, my name is TED NUGENT. Eat me!”

Makes sense. I mean, who DOESN’T want to have sexual relations with Harper.

Um. Me.

He loves America  and blames it’s problems on the Democrat party. He was particularly vitriolic toward Hilary Clinton.  He’s made cogent political arguments like "You probably can't use the term 'toxic c--t' in your magazine, but that's what she is.  Her very existence insults the spirit of individualism in this country.  This bitch is nothing but a two-bit whore for Fidel Castro." *

Damn it, then, I’m a Slut for Layton. I will have sex for money in order to show my support for Jack Layton.

He totally wants to have sex with Barack Obama, but is too shy to ask.

He clearly has gotta have it.


Nugent periodically considers running for public office in Michigan. Like his pal Sarah Palin.

If Ted Nugent and Sarah Palin had a love child this is what it would look like:

Look at the guy. He looks off his nut. I mean, if he said “Don’t drink bleach”, I might think, well if Ted Nugent says I shouldn’t drink bleach, I probably should drink bleach. 

I believe that, in addition to happenings in the auto industry and long term strained race relations, the downfall of Detroit can be attributed directly to Ted Nugent.

He is on the board of the NRA and believes the Second Amendment is the most important, not 200 years out of date, part of the US Constitution. He is super scared of Evil.

"The war is coming to the streets of America and if you are not keeping and bearing and practicing with your arms then you will be helpless and you will be the victim of evil." 

Giving people guns tends to lower homicide rates, he seems to think. This is why gun related homicide deaths in the US are ten times per capita than they are in Canada. Maybe he should go to South Africa where fire-arm homicides are 10 times what they are in the US. He loves South Africa and wants things to stay just as they are there even though the people are different.  Nugent said that the people of South Africa put bones in their noses and  “they wipe their butts with their hands.... I hope they don't become civilized…” He’s down with them though, a real homie.  "I use the word n----r a lot because I hang around with a lot of n----rs, and they use the word n----r,”  - Detroit Free Press Magazine , July 15, 1990). When in Rome, eh? Off you go to South Africa, then, Nuge. Put you in a fenced hunting ground. Sound the horn.

Says he is vehemently opposed to drugs and says he’s never used drugs, although did admit to using cocaine and cannabis at one time (People Weekly , Feb. 28, 1977). 




‘Cause that’s different.

Damn. What I had wanted to do was to write a clever little piece on what a douche Ted Nugent is, but there really is no reason. There is a lot of info out there on what a boob this guy is. Google it. I did.  I’m not here to reinvent the wheel or to take up your time stating the obvious.

So, the only thing left for me to do is to announce my...




 “Insult Ted Nugent Haiku Contest”.

The winner will get their portrait drawn by me and posted on the blog for the whole of the interweb to see. Enter as often as you like until Sunday, June 26, 2011.  Winner announced on Monday, June 27. Please refrain from expletives. The word douche bag is allowed.


Just post your entry in the comments section. Leave your name if you want your portrait to be gender specific.


Have fun!

Happy Father's Day!

It’s Father’s Day today, and sadly, my dad is no longer around to get the unwanted ties, tins of Tavner’s Fruit Drops and boxes of Black Magic that we got him every single year. He died in 2001, and I miss him a whole big bunch.

I’m sure my dad loved getting the gifts we gave him. But what he really wanted was stationery. Office supplies. Paper goods. I know this because after he died, and we were sorting through his stuff, we found a full 2 dresser drawers CRAMMED with pens, paper clips, felt pens, drafting pencils, highlighters, boxes of staples, various rulers, scissors, glue sticks, index cards, pencil leads, calligraphy sets (yes, sets. Plural), erasers (pink and white), pen refills, pencil sharpeners, loose-leaf re-enforcers, hole punches (single and for 2 and 3 ring binders), red wax pencils, white out, geometry kits, post-its, file folders and Exacto-knives. The paper (plain, graph, lined and coloured) was stored elsewhere. He had carbon paper, onion paper, pads of 2X3 note paper, ink wells, and tape dispenser refills.

It is important that you know that this is not an exaggeration.

He bought 90% of that stuff at Smith’s Stationery in Selkirk, Manitoba. You’re welcome, Ernie Smith. He also hoarded Mountie quarters and toilet paper. But who doesn’t really?

At least he hoarded something useful and was tidy about it. Some dads hoard rusty cars and store them in the front yard. My apologies if this is your dad. Wish him a Happy Father's Day, get him drunk and have that crap towed while he's passed out.

Dad in his kilt.

My dad was also a lover of comedy and had brilliant comic timing. He would sit on a joke, for months, if necessary, and wait for the perfect opportunity to let it loose. I wish I had that kind of restraint. Where some children were forced to learn Bible verses, I was encouraged to memorize entire episodes of Monty Python, sketch by sketch. I think I was probably a lot better off than the Bible kids, in the end. Actually, I know it. Here is one of our favourites.

He was church organist at the Selkirk United Church for over 50 years and played mostly by ear, although he sight read as well. He would make up the organ prelude and postlude music, sometimes his original music, sometimes Bach-ian versions of the theme music from Mr. Bean. At Christmas time, we’d watch the Mr Bean Christmas Special. Funny every time.

And then he’d sit in his Laz-y Boy and listen to Handel’s Messiah, close his eyes and conduct.

He was always called upon to accompany my parents’ friends’ sing-song parties. I liked going because there was chips.

He loved math and science (helpful, as he was a math and science teacher). He used a GPS unit, when they first became available to regular consumers, to plot and map out the exact location of an old dance hall that used to be near the Selkirk Park. After he died, we found 8 GPS units that he had had. You may add to that multiple CB radios, several stop watches and a dozen calculators. He had 5 telescopes. Five. He used to time lunar occultations –when a star goes behind the moon and send his findings into the Royal Astronomical Society of Canada, of which he was a member. One of his telescopes had a barrel 5 feet long and he had it out in the yard one freezing winter night and showed me Saturn. You could see the rings.

He hated and feared those tent caterpillar worms that hang from threads in the trees in the late spring. Gave him the heebie jeebies. 

He would plot out elaborate ways to plug in electrical items using extension cords. Usually involved drilling a hole in the floor.

My dad had this ridiculous old 4-wheel drive truck, a hideous, HUGE green and silver army van from the 1950’s, I think. He loved that truck.

It was quite the machine. He would be out in it, in the worst blizzards, helping the tow trucks pull cars out of ditches, getting nurses to the hospital when they couldn’t get out of their own driveways. The best was when he’d take birthday party boat -loads of us, tumbled in the back, and go bumping and careening over the monkey trails in East Selkirk. We got a lot of bruises. But cheaper than Disneyland.

Dad always said he’d wanted to be buried in that truck. Sorry, Pa!

He loved Cagney and Lacey. Did math puzzle books in about 2 seconds flat. Once I wore one of his shirts (I did that a lot) and put a little heart pin in the collar. Dad didn’t notice and wore the shirt to work. He was pissed at me.

He made popcorn for me if I said “Please, Daddy Sir”.

We used to watch Carol Burnett together.

He used to peel concord grapes and stick the gooey inner green part just in his nostril and wait for someone to notice.

Best. Dad. Ever.

Times Sure Have Changed.

 Things sure aren’t like they used to be.

As I settle more comfortably into my well upholstered middle age, I find that some people tend to  long for days yore, simpler times, times we wouldn’t have worried about how to spell Gaddafi (Quaphiy, Giddaffy, G’Dayfee), or feel shamed that we’d thrown empty toilet paper rolls into the garbage instead of the recycling. Playground structures were made of unrelenting metal, not plastic. The Conservative Party was not the Bastion of Evil. They were actually a reasonable option long ago, kids! Little girls’ underwear had ladybugs on them, not thongs with “Hottie” emblazoned with rhinestones. A good day was spent at Patricia Beach with chips and pop, not with virtual warrior zombies or on meth. Allowances were small, microwave ovens were big and Phil Collins was still in Genesis and wasn’t crying all the time.

Not everything about those days was golden, though. I’m not pining for the days before email, ATMs, multiple flavours of toothpaste and vanity sizing. No. Today is better, I think.

Like, for example, my belly button used to smell funny. It doesn’t anymore. I don’t bathe any more or less than I used to in my 20s, but I no longer have a navel that smells like a J-Cloth. Where did that stinky lint go? I sure don’t miss that.

Nowadays Hollywood Blockbusters have amazing effects that make you really, really believe that cars from outer space come to life and are going to kill you. 

Or that Toby Maguire is a viable sex symbol. 

Or that the popcorn you just spilled didn’t cost $40.

TV is a lot better now, with the exception of all those reality type shows that have such limited plot lines:

Outrageously Fake boob lady 1 throws drink in the face of  Outrageously Fake Boob lady 2 and calls her a bitch. Outrageously Fake Boob lady 2 calls Outrageously Fake Boob Lady 1 a bitch and then gets her nails done.

Brian and I watch a lot of TV. Saves us from having conversations about “the future”, or “our relationship” or “who was the woman you were necking with on the street corner yesterday”. Here is a list of just some of the TV shows we watch:

The Mentalist (Patrick Jane is snarky and twinkly)

CSI (will they please retire Langston? Not loving him)

30 Rock (Will walk on hot coals for Tina Fey)

Parks and Rec (Will drink bleach for Amy Poehler)

The Office (We’ll have to see how this plays out)

Modern Family (Best. Show. Ever)

Family Guy (starting to wane for me)

American Dad (I’m basically Francine, but wasn’t a slut in high school)

Nurse Jackie (Wonderbar!)

Burn Notice (Funny, action-y and cool clothes)

In Plain Sight (Witty repartee and good source for insults)

Leverage (Quirky, but not stressful. They always win)

The Misfits (Hi-lar-i-ous. They swear a lot)

Mad Men (Clothes, scotch drinking stances)

Psyche (spot the pineapple)

Monk (no longer running. We loved it)

Covert Affairs (although I want to stab the lead actress. Stop pouting all the time!)

Game of Thrones (affectionately called “Show of Boobies”)

True Blood (getting a bit too porn for me, but I’m kinda hooked)

White Collar (cute. Lead actor is easy on eyes)

Sherlock (Crazy Brits make their series’ 2 episodes at a time with 6 months in between(

Justified (Kentucky Redneck Detectives)

Dexter (killing, all the time)

Rubicon (until they cancelled it. Why? Why? It was so good!)

The Killing (thrillllllling)

Brian hates The Cleveland Show. I hate Californication

I used to live without TV. I read a lot more. I had more friends. When Bettina and I were roommates we didn’t have a TV but had to entertain ourselves in other ways. Other young women were out at bars, meeting men and doing regrettable, but super excellent things.  Bettina and I would stay home and give each other makeovers.

   

  

In the afternoons, before I went to work as a bartender and after Bettina had come home from work, we’d have Quiet Time, which consisted of us lying down on our respective futons, having a full pot of tea with chocolate chip cookies from Kaufmann’s grocery store (God, they were amazing) and debriefing the day’s events. 

Bettina during Quiet Time

me during Quiet Time. I could never wear enough denim back then.

  

She’d listen to me complain about various men in my life for a couple hours and then I’d ask vaguely how her day went.  Then we’d make a big crock of spaghetti with meat sauce and eat it really fast “before our brains told our stomachs that we’re full”.

Or we’d entertain ourselves with contests such as “Chin Races”.  We had our afternoon rituals. Some people would watch The Young and the Restless, or smoke. We had “1-2-3” and “The Other Thing”.

Here follows a video demonstration of our entertainments.

When we did venture out we’d often be dressed identically. Biker jackets. Mom jeans. Gap t-shirts. One of us would have to go back and change. So I’d put on sosmething with sequins. But still with the mom jeans. WTF.

Then our friend gave us an old TV and we spent our time watching re-runs of The Golden Girls. Every. Single. Day. We loved the Golden Girls so much, I made her a pillow of them. Bettina was Estelle Getty. I was, you guessed it, Bea Arthur.

That was in 1989. Now, there’s only one Golden Girl left. I still work in bars occasionally, but in a different job. Bettina lives in a different town, so there are few opportunities for makeovers, sadly, and Quiet Times are few and far between. We’d both rather eat cheese than have chin races.  I watch a lot of TV. Yes, things are different now.

But why did my belly button stink back then?